


fingers and thumbs, baby

by swishandflickwit



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ACOTAR - Freeform, F/M, Nessian - Freeform, Post-ACOWAR, acotar fan fiction, acotar ff, acowar spoilers, nessian fan fiction, nessian ff, nessian fluff, original nessian baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 05:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13428150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishandflickwit/pseuds/swishandflickwit
Summary: Before the first snowfall of the season, Cassian and Nesta's first child is born.





	fingers and thumbs, baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acourtoftruelove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acourtoftruelove/gifts).



> To my best friend Selina, whose very existence in my life always has been and always will be the greatest gift of all. I promised you a Christmas fic and it's nearly a month late (for which I can't apologize _enough_ ) but here it finally is!
> 
> So, a special shoutout to my cousin Maia, for her unwavering support and for being the best beta reader a writer could ask for. Thanks for urging me to post this, ASAP. Your enthusiasm gives me _life._
> 
> Slight warning, mentions of blood and pre-labor bleeding so if that's triggering to you, maybe this isn't the fic for you. Take care of yourselves first, folks.
> 
> Other than that, I hope everyone enjoys it!
> 
> P. S. Title taken from Ed Sheeran's beautiful song Hearts Don't Break Around Here. Another musical inspiration was First Rain by Teen Daze & S. Carey—for no particular reason related to Nessian and more to do with the fact that it sounded what I thought snow falling might, despite the title saying ‘Rain’ and not ‘Snow’.

He’d never seen anything so small.

Odd, he knew, given how old he actually was.

(Which was not _that_ old, mind you, but old _enough_ )

Still, the thought echoed in his head like a war drum—steady, yes, but loud and thrumming and inescapable, too. He couldn’t help but match it to the beat of his heart, the restless, anxiety-riddled thing in his chest keeping him from the blissful oblivion of slumber. A slumber that countless others have told him to seize whenever the opportunity arised.

 _So small,_ he mused, looking down at his hands—seemingly gargantuan through his sleepless-addled gaze. It’s any wonder he won’t break beneath his touch.

But he knows he’s a fighter, this child of his. He’s known it from the moment he scented him in Nesta, from the first time Madja placed her hands on Nesta’s stomach and confirmed it, and every moment afterwards.

Had known it the most when Nesta had bled (a plethora of medical jargon thrown at him that basically signified a tear in her womb, causing distress to the baby and triggering an earlier-than-scheduled birth) and spent more than 27 hours in labor.

They were _both_ fighters that day while he, for once, had to endure that agonizing wait. Every second away from her, from _them_ , felt like an ever tightening shackle around his neck that threatened to choke the very breath out of him. Azriel, whose shadows were a constant presence in his and Nesta’s abode, was—aside from Madja—the first one there, having been warned by his shadows which too, were alerting the rest of their family. It was Azriel who, gently but firmly, took him by the shoulders as he paced the living room like a caged and untamed animal and pointed out the blood staining him— _Nesta’s_ blood.

He blanched.

He was no stranger to the sight of his clothes, his _hands_ , drenched in it and to the tangy, metallic smell of the life fluid, having spent most of his existence in battlefields. Yet nothing could have prepared him from Nesta’s harrowing cry rousing him from sleep, as their sheets seeped the bleeding, transforming the ivory into a glaring red.

Yes, he’d been thrust into battle time and time again yet in that moment, with the love of his life a sweaty, quivering, hemorrhaging mess in his arms, he’d never seen so much blood.

That was the last he saw of her that night for upon the healer’s arrival, Madja had relegated him to the living room where he nearly tore the floorboards from his mad strides. No amount of soothing from the females (sans Amren, who merely sat in a corner with that preternatural stillness, glared at anything that moved and replied with clipped, terse, monosyllabic words when spoken to—as anxious as Amren would allow herself to feel or show) or faux-ribbing from the males could appease him.

It wasn’t the waiting that unbalanced him so much as the _thinking_. Madja had silenced the room the moment she entered and swiftly kicked him out of the bedroom he shared with Nesta. He’d left the lights in his townhouse off save for a few lamps in the living room, a state that the Inner Circle did not bother to change or complain about, edgy as everyone was.

His first-born.

Cauldron, his _first_ -born—and in a way, _everyone’s_ first-born.

So could he really be blamed for the way his thoughts brewed a wild and tempestuous storm within him? It certainly didn’t help that the last image he had of Nesta was the rivulets of blood running down her legs the way tears might stream down one’s face.

But there were no tears misting those beautiful eyes, only steel and determination. It should have assured him, that look. But the darkness, the writhing and ugly kind, liked to grab hold of his mind and twist the most innocent of thoughts into the most horrifying adumbrations. His mind was a reel of effigies in the shape of his most catastrophic fears while his insecurities reverberated throughout corners of his brain in an endless, tragic, parody of a symphony.

It was a cacophony up there, but none more so than the erratic beating of his nervous heart.

He was feverish with worry now, the sun having risen and set with no word from Madja, not even the squeak of the wooden door. With his companions taking up any available horizontal surface in his living room and sleeping—save for Azriel, who remained vigilant and supportive in that soft and quiet way only Azriel could do—his traitorous, hysterical thoughts filled the suffocating silence of his home once more.

He had made up his mind to barge through that door, the healer’s implicit banishment and the shadowsinger’s steadfast hands on his shoulders be damned, when they heard it—a cry.

It pierced the still, night air—the sharp din flooding the townhouse, awakening the Inner Circle and rattling their very bones.

Everything inside him had quieted. Every muscle and nerve focused on that one, magnificent sound.

It was a bellow to make even the mountains tremble, accompanied by the exquisite cadence of her strong, _unyielding_ heart.

His brave, beautiful warriors had won, and his feet couldn’t take him up the stairs fast enough.

The sight that greeted him nearly brought him to his knees.

Though he could honestly care less about the state of the bed, he was thankful that those awful, reddened sheets were gone, replaced with the pristine ivory linens both he and Nesta so favored (no doubt Madja’s doing, the healer surprisingly out of sight). Nesta had her back propped against the headboard, her face pale but her eyes bright as stars, the moonbeams falling from their bedroom window only serving to highlight the ethereal glow that had befallen her as the cloak of motherhood settled comfortably across her shoulders.

Upon his entry, she looked up at him with a raised brow, as if to ask, _what took you so long?_

The impatient look on her visage, the complete normalcy of the unimpressed act had him staggering towards the bed and falling on his knees at her side in pure and unadulterated relief. He pressed kisses onto the skin of her arm, her shoulder and neck before resting his brow there and drawing in the scent of her because finally, _finally_ —for the first time in hours, he could breathe again.

He hadn’t realize he was crying till Nesta brought his face up to meet hers. She tenderly placed a hand on his cheek and caught the droplets that strayed there.

“There was. . . there was so much _blood_ ,” he whimpered, breaths ragged against her palm. He grasped the hand cupping his cheek to reassure himself of her presence. “I thought I had lost you. I thought you were _dead._ ” He squeezed her fingers. “I thought you were dead.”

“I am here,” she squeezed back. It was three words but it was enough. He could see everything in her eyes—the struggle she had gone through, the ache she had felt during the first half of the birth but also the joy, the gratefulness. . . the _love_. He heard what she could not voice, saw what she saw, _felt_ as she felt because this was Nesta, and they were one and the same.

She let go of his hand only to wrap her elegant fingers around his chin. “Come and meet our child, Cassian,” she said, just as the bundle in her arms let out a soft cry, as if sensing his presence and calling out for him. He felt his heart swell two sizes for that very sound alone. “Come and meet your son.”

Nesta shifted, wrapping both her arms around their child— _their_ child, Mother above a _son_ —so that he might slide into the space beside her. Not needing to be told twice, he coasted onto the bed in the most gentle of maneuvers so as not to disturb Nesta or the baby, his body molding into hers in perfect harmony. Nesta rested her back against his chest, his arms encircling hers as hers encircled their child and together, they turned their gazes down towards _him_.

“He’s beautiful,” he whispered, burrowing his cheek into the crown of her head where his tears fell in quiet streams, unbidden and unstoppable. “What’s his name?”

“Cayden Morgan,” Nesta replied, her voice equally soft as she lifted the babe higher for him to gaze closer, tiny wisps of black hair peeking from beneath the blanket he was swaddled in. “Cayden, for the warrior he will be. . . for the warrior that he _is._ And Morgan for—”

Just then, three booming thuds rattled the door, a fourth one causing the wood to bang open and announce the arrival of none other than Morrigan, in all her blonde, bouncing, excitable, glory.

“Where’s my godchild?” she exclaimed.

Both Nesta and Cassian winced, casting a quick glance at the baby cradled between them—blissfully unaware, thank the Mother—before directing their livid glares onto Mor.

She was unapologetic in the way that she ignored their stares and went straight to the free space beside Nesta. Nesta frowned, though the twinkle in her eyes told them all it was in jest, before adjusting her hold on Cayden so that he might face his godmother.

(Not even an hour in and all ready, Nesta was a natural. He could hardly contain his heart in his chest, elated as he was)

Mor sighed, running a gentle finger across the top of the babe’s forehead.

“He’s absolutely gorgeous,” she cooed. “Just like his godmother!”

The pair of them rolled their eyes, but quickly sobered at the sight of silver misting the line of Mor’s eyes. She leaned her head into the crook of Nesta’s neck as the gravity of the past day’s events grounded them.

“You did wonderfully, Nesta.” She reached across them to clutch at Cassian’s arm. “You both did.”

Mor raised her head and met both their eyes at a time, everything exchanged in that simple look.

“Cayden Morgan,” she smiled, wiping at the corner of her eyes. She sniffed. “You know I’m only going to call him Mor, right?”

A beat—and then they burst into giggles, suffusing the air with some much needed levity. Cayden didn’t so much as stir, a surprise given his parents’ rather. . . _difficult_ dispositions.

When the heavy blanket of silence enveloped them, Mor bit her lip and with uncharacteristic nervousness, remarked, “I convinced everyone to let me go first. They’re just downstairs. . .”

The unspoken question hung in the air. Nesta and Cassian exchanged a look, Cassian dipping his chin at Nesta as if to convey that it was her choice. She nodded back.

“We’re both quite tired,” she mused and at the word _tired,_ a tidal wave of crippling exhaustion crashed into Cassian’s bones, like his body was only just remembering the fatigue from not having slept for more than a day. He sagged against Nesta then, his eyelids heavy.

Mor’s shoulders drooped, but Nesta gave a smile—the tiniest quirk to the corner of her lip, yes, but a smile nonetheless.

“But I think Cayden would like to meet the rest of his family.”

Mor suddenly perked up, beaming at Nesta.

“What do you say, Mor?” She continued, “Would you care to introduce the latest member of the Court of Dreams to the rest of the Inner Circle?”

Mor’s smile was the sun, her eyes mere slits as the attestation of her happiness coursed down her cheeks.

“I would be honored,” she murmured.

Nesta eased Cayden into the circle of Mor’s arms, carefully instructing her on the correct position and reminding her to “mind his head”.

(He smiled, at how much of a natural Nesta all ready was)

When Cayden was safely ensconced in Mor’s hold, Nesta burrowed herself into the warmth of his side just as he melted into her. Cayden was cradled to Mor’s chest, so small and delicate, and it occurred to him then that he had yet to hold his son in his _own_ arms. It was his final thought before the lulling darkness of sleep took him.

It was that same thought that stirred him, no doubt, as he sat up in bed that same night, clanging resolutely in his head.

He hadn’t dozed long, judging by the position of the moon. Nesta was dead to the world, a slumber akin to the replenishing lethargy that comes upon magic-users when they exhaust the reserves of their power. So he resolved not to disturb her further, leaving a kiss upon her brow before silently changing out of his day-old clothes and into fresh ones, then venturing into the room down the hall.

Cayden’s room.

He cast his hearing throughout the house, somewhat amused but mostly touched that his friends had stayed the night, situating themselves throughout the guest rooms of his and Nesta’s home. Then, with a stealth born from years of training, he entered the chambers on soundless footsteps till he was stood before the bassinet in the middle of the room. He was firm in his decision to hold his son—that is, till he was looking down at his still and peaceful form in repose.

 _So small,_ he mused, looking down at his hands—seemingly gargantuan through his sleepless-addled gaze. It’s any wonder he won’t break beneath his touch. But he knows he’s a fighter, this child of his. Small, yes, but _strong_ —the angry cry he released as he took his first breaths in the world only the first testament to that. And though he was loath to wake him and even slightly afraid he might _drop_ him (no matter how many times Madja had instructed him and Nesta on the proper maneuvers of holding a child), he also can’t spend another minute without having Cayden in his arms.

So, with a grace he hadn’t known he was capable of till that very moment, he took his son into his arms, supporting his body with his forearm as he tucked his head into his chest. The boy did not fuss—apart from the tiniest of mewls. He simply settled into him, with unconditional faith and trust. And for the third time that night—

Cassian wept.

* * *

He didn’t know how long he was there. It could have been minutes, it could have been _days_ , but he didn’t care. They were locked in this precious, fragile moment where the world narrowed till there was only Cassian, and there was only _him_.

His feet had long since taken him from the side of the crib to the bay window seat he and Nesta had installed when they designed the nursery. He sat with his back propped against the wall and his knees bent before him where he rested his arms, Cayden’s body poised down the length of them—he could all ready feel the two nubs spanning the opposite sides of his back where his wings would soon sprout, he discovered with no less excitement—and his head cradled between his palms.

Then, afraid of his rough calluses marring his baby soft skin, he just stared.

He took in the smatter of onyx hair atop Cayden’s head (and hoped it would curl like his when it was long enough). He marveled at the elegant slope of his nose, _Nesta’s_ nose. He even delighted at the baby’s ears, pointed proudly to show off his fae heritage. Then he proceeded to count his fingers and his toes, again and again, and would nearly burst when he came up with the same number each time.

Ten perfect little toes. Ten perfect little fingers that would curl reflexively around one of his own each time he held it to Cayden’s small palm.

(Not that Cassian would ever love him any less if he didn’t. Still, he just wanted to be _sure_ )

And in all the wonder, Cayden shifted, bleary eyes blinking up at him—and stared back.

His eyes were little more than slits but beneath the luminous full moon, it was enough—enough to see the brilliance of those blue eyes, the eyes of his mother, speckled with flecks of amber from his father, making it unmistakable as to whose child this was.

The inimitable combination of him and Nesta.

And he was lost, so lost to him and the depths of that intense gaze. Perhaps it was foolish of him to think, Cayden barely even a day old, but he could all ready detect the intelligence behind them—sharp and curious, not unlike Nesta’s own calculating gaze.

So, compelled by a force greater than him, a force that could only be described as the unconditional love of a parent towards their child, he spoke to Cayden and said, rather artlessly for the supposed commander of the Night Court armies, “Hi.”

He paused, as if waiting for Cayden to answer before shaking his head and laughing to himself under his breath.

“It’s me, your dad.” He smiled. “Hi, son.”

Such odd words to pass from his lips. A son, he had a _son,_ Cauldron help him, he was a _father_. He was actually expected to help raise this fledgling till he reached maturity—he wasn’t even sure if _he_ reached maturity!

A buzzing filled his head then, a clamor that roared louder as his doubts grew bigger. But before he could drown in it a gurgle interrupted his musings.

He glanced down, only to be captured once more by Cayden’s gaze. Cassian let out a sigh.

“I’m being silly, aren’t I?” He murmured to Cayden. Cayden merely blinked in reply and Cassian huffed a laugh. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m pretty sure this won’t be the last time my thoughts get the best of me. Your dad’s _kind_ of an idiot.” He let out another gurgle and Cassian rolled his eyes. “Alright, laugh it out now but I can be cool too!” He puffed up his chest. “I head your uncle Rhys’ Night Court armies which, mind you, is a _big_ job.” Then he frowned, adjusting his hold when Cayden shuffled a bit out of his swaddle. “The truth is. . . I’m afraid. I’m really, _really_ afraid.” He let out a heavy breath. “All the training, all the battles couldn’t have prepared me for this. For _you_.”

He looked out the window, at all the lights that spanned his beloved city, then at the garden below him—the grass that remained a crisp green when it should have been powdered with snow. He sighed.

“I never had a father growing up so, I don’t really know what it means to be a good one. The only grown-up who really supported me was. . . your uncle Rhys’ mom.” He trailed off, a small smile creeping onto his lips. “She wasn’t the warmest person, well, she was as warm as an Illyrian _could_ be but, she stitched us up whenever we would get injured and she made sure we had a roof over our heads and food in our belly. . . she made us feel safe. She made _me_ feel at home, at least. Even in an Illyrian training camp.” His brows furrowed as he returned his gaze to Cayden.

“Hey, you know I wouldn’t make you do that, right? I mean, your instincts would probably urge you to want to do it but,” he huddled closer to Cayden, “if you told me that you didn’t want to train in the camps, I wouldn’t force you. If you told me you wanted to be a—an artist like your aunt Feyre or a city guard or even a scholar, I’d be happy. I’d be happy as long as _you_ were happy. You’re a warrior to me, son and I’m proud of you no matter what. Just, don’t be like your uncle Az and keep it all to yourself, all right?” He sniffed, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “You have to let me know because, I’m an idiot and I won’t always get it right.” He laughed a bit before shrugging, his voice dropping even further to a conspiratorial whisper. “But that’s why I married your mom.”

He sighed, a proud and happy sound. “She’s probably the better choice for these emotional chats, I should think.” He winked. “She may not let it on but she cares. A _lot_. And she’ll know exactly what to say and where to steer you so you won’t go wrong. She certainly does so for me.”

(His mind flashed back to all those years ago, when her voice was a beacon in the din of chaos that was the battle of Hybern, when her desperate cry paved the way to his salvation)

He cleared his throat so as to keep his emotions from further overwhelming him and reducing him to a blubbering, wailing mess. “Because she’s smart. _Incredibly_ smart. I mean, she married me too, didn’t she?”

Cayden cooed at him, as if to say _her mistake,_ and he smirked.

“Cheeky, aren’t you?” He chuckled. “You can keep a secret, right?” Cayden blinked up at him, those eyes sparkling. Cassian grinned, leaning down to nose gently at him before pulling back. “Sometimes, I don’t even know _why_ she married me.”

“Because she loves you.”

His head snapped up, surprise filling his features at not hearing her approach before softening into a serene expression.

“Hi,” he breathed.

Nesta leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed as a small smile spanned the breadth of her pink lips. At her charmed expression, he wondered how long she had stood there and how much she heard. “Hi, yourself.”

“What are you doing up, sweetheart?” He asked, a touch of concern coating his tone. “Are you all right?” He sat up straighter, making a move towards her when Nesta stepped into the room and strolled to his side. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and he sank into her warmth.

“I missed you,” she hummed. “I missed you both.” She pressed a long kiss to the side of his head.

“You’re holding him,” she whispered, awe in her inflection, in her very touch.

He nodded. “I couldn’t wait another moment without.”

“Neither could I,” she admitted. She ran her finger lightly across the apple of Cayden’s cheek.

Nesta frowned when she noticed Cayden’s swaddle on the floor where the infant had wriggled away from it, withdrawing her touch then rubbing a hand down the length of Cassian’s arm.

“Aren’t you cold?”

He shook his head, glancing out the window with a disapproving look of his own. “The snowfall is taking its time this year so, it’s not that chilly.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I love winter,” he shot her a wicked grin, his eyebrows waggling. “It’s the perfect weather for. . . _cuddling._ ”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why do I think you mean something else when you say, ‘cuddling’?”

He kissed her stomach (still rounded from childbirth) then looked up at her, mischief in his eyes and sin on his lips when he murmured huskily, “Care to confirm that thought?”

Nesta, rather unceremoniously, pushed his face off her stomach. _Hard_.

“Not for another eight weeks, _sweetheart._ ”

 _“Eight weeks?"_  He squeaked.

Nesta smirked. “Madja’s orders.”

At the mention of the healer, he sobered. His voice was somber as he said, “Whatever it takes for you to recover, we’ll do it.”

He made to slump against her when she grasped his chin. “I’m fine, Cassian.”

“I know,” he let out a breath, urging the tension to ease out of his muscles. He smiled up at her, soft and gentle. “My brave, beautiful warrior.”

Nesta gulped, the rim of her eyes red with emotion. She swooped down and captured his lips with her own, her kiss slow and languid but speaking volumes. She grazed her tongue along the seam of his lips and he opened for her, letting out a slight moan when their tongues touched.

At that moment, Cayden moved his head and let out a wordless murmur of what had to be protest at the sight, effectively breaking his parents apart.

They giggled.

“Get used to it, sweetheart,” Cassian remarked, breathing in Cayden’s honeyed, comforting scent before bestowing a kiss onto the tip of his son’s nose. He rested his forehead lightly atop his and Cayden gripped his nose in reply. Nesta let out another round of chuckles.

When their laughters died down, a comfortable silence settled onto the air around them as they watched Cayden fall asleep, his head snuggled into the stretch of skin between his father’s shoulder and neck.

“We should put him back in his bassinet.”

Nesta nodded but made no move towards the wooden crib. “We should.”

“But maybe. . . maybe he could stay on our bed, just for tonight,” he said, the last three words coming out in one, rushed breath.

“Just for tonight,” she echoed resolutely, only to bite her lip as if to contain her smile.

As if she, too, realized the lie in the words but did not mind at all, not one bit. He grinned wide enough for both of them though, as he held Cayden tightly to him with one hand and gestured to Nesta with the other. He entwined their fingers.

They crept quietly down the hall, careful not to rouse the sleeping inhabitants of the house nor jostle the bundle in his arm. And when they reached their chambers, they settled Cayden between them, their heads propped on their hands as they lay on their sides and watched him breathe.

“He’s perfect,” she whispered as she stroked Cayden’s fingers then his toes, counting them as she went. _Ten_ , she mouthed, the number reassuring now as it was earlier that night when it was him doing the very same act. It’s the softest he’s ever seen her, motherhood all ready wearing down the once ubiquitous edge to her shoulders that not even he could completely erase. “And we _made_ him.”

Cassian’s arm crossed the space between them to run a thumb along her cheek—to caress the lines on her face that spoke of her happiness and trace the smile on her lips. Ever so gently, he straightened the arm propping his head till his upper body towered over the two of them. His thumb went from her lips to graze her chin, then the strong line of her jaw before burrowing his hand, in her long, golden brown, tresses.

He kissed her, with all the reverence, honor and love he could pour into a kiss. Because _they_ may have created Cayden together but it was _Nesta_ who carried him all those months, Nesta who brought him into this world. Cayden was all Nesta. . . was all the best parts of her and him.

They only pulled away when the need for air became too great and even then he did not stray, nuzzling his nose into the crease of her cheek before pressing his brow onto hers. His lips tingled from the intensity of their kiss, his blood singing as the sweetness of her breaths continued to coat his tongue.

“We can do this,” she said, confirming his suspicions that she heard more than she let on of his conversation with their son.

He nodded. “I can do anything, as long as we’re together.”

She nipped at his lips lightly in response before running her own fingers through his hair, tucking some of the wilder curls behind his ear.

“Sleep now,” she commanded, her lips twitching, “while we have the chance.”

“As my lady commands.”

He snuggled closer to Cayden and Nesta till his body was pressed slightly onto Cayden’s side and a sliver of space was left between him and Nesta’s heads. A shudder went through him at the slight nip in the air and so he slid his hand across the sheets beneath Cayden’s feet, chasing warmth till he was ghosting Nesta’s palm. She reached for him, tangling their fingers together.

“Thank you,” he said, “for this beautiful life.”

All she said was, “I love you,” her eyes drooping shut, but it was enough. It had always been more than enough—because 500 years of existence yet he didn’t know what it meant to _truly_ live, not till he met her.

They were three bodies, bound by love, whose souls had now merged to one.

And outside, for the first time that season and unbeknownst to them—

Snow fell.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me, here or on tumblr (same name as my AO3)! I'm _desperate_ for more people to cry over ACOTAR with me!


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